


different strokes

by Airheart



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Tattoos, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9425588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airheart/pseuds/Airheart
Summary: Donnie doesn't really think of himself as an artist, but his brothers have a different opinion





	

**Author's Note:**

> combined elements from 2012 and bayverse

Donnie drew, but he didn’t call himself an artist. Most of his drawings were technical designs; plans for machinery and weapons, full of crisp lines and perfect angles. He measured and plotted and re-measured and made sure his pencil was always in the right place. He needed precision. Everything was in its place for a reason, and he had to find that reason before he could even think about building anything. With his limited resources, he had to know what he was going to do before he did it, and he looked at his drawings as information, not art.

Mikey was the artist of the family. Nobody could really remember when he started drawing, but as far as they were concerned, he had always been doing it. Most of his early art is on paper salvaged from the trash; essays with nothing printed on the back, the end papers of books and the blank inside covers of soft paperbacks, spiral notebooks that Donnie erased the pencil marks out of. Then April started bringing him sketchbooks and introduced him to the wonders of a blue-leaded pencil, and his talent blossomed.

When they were fifteen, Mikey drew himself and his brothers as Space Heroes characters for Leo. Donnie built Metalhead. They saved the world from Kraang destruction.

When they were sixteen, Mikey filled an entire 70-page sketchbook with his Crognard fan characters. Donnie built the Turtle Mech. They saved the world from Triceraton destruction.

When they were seventeen, a character that Mikey designed won a contest online and got featured in some fantasy webcomic that he loved. Donnie fully redesigned the T-phone with a bigger screen and satellite internet connection, and the world was safe for once.

A few months later, Donnie asked Mikey what he wanted for their eighteenth mutation day.

“A cat,” Mikey said brightly.

“You already have Ice Cream Kitty and Klunk,” Donnie said. As if on cue, Klunk meowed from her warm perch on top of the TV. “No more cats. They make sensei nervous, anyway.”

“Okay, then a dog.”

“No.”

“What about—”

“Let me make this easier for you,” said Donnie, holding up one hand and counting off on his fingers, “no living creatures, nothing involving lasers, and I’m not going to build another robot.”

Mikey closed his mouth and looked thoughtful for a minute.

“Okay, a new fridge. Ours smells funny.”

“It’s always smelled funny.”

“Well, yeah, but now it’s even starting to bother _me_ ,” said Mikey, and Donnie had to agree that that was pretty bad. The weird, stale smell of years of greasy and spoiled food being stored in that fridge had taken its toll. Sometimes Donnie’s morning toast tasted more like old pizza than bread and butter.

He nodded. “That’s a good idea. I could find one at—”

Suddenly Mikey gasped and grabbed Donnie by the arm, his eyes sparkling.

“No, wait! I know what I want,” he said. Donnie braced himself. “I want a tattoo!”

“A tattoo? Still?” Donnie asked, surprised. “I thought you were over that a long time ago.”

“No way, dude. I’ve wanted one for years. Hey, we should all get one! Wouldn’t that be cool?”

Donnie paused. Once upon a time he would have immediately shot that idea down, but now the wheels in his head were turning, and it didn’t sound terrible. No one had ever tattooed a turtle. The potential challenge was attractive.

Mikey was absolutely beaming at him.

“I know that look,” he said, shaking Donnie’s arm, “you’re totally considering it.”

“Considering it,” Donnie agreed, “not making any promises, though.”

To Mikey, though, that was as good as a verbal contract, and if he was disappointed when Donnie brought out the new fridge instead (salvaged from the dump and meticulously repaired and upgraded) on their mutation day, he didn’t show it. He hovered while Donnie installed the fridge, then spent a half hour poking around in all the drawers and gleefully testing the in-door ice/water dispenser.

“Maybe we can replace the stove next,” said Leo. “I’ve been feeling like it’s going to burst into flame whenever I turn it on lately.”

“That would be sick,” Mikey said, “just _boosh_ , spitting fire everywhere.” He pushed the ice lever again, and raised his voice over the racket of the ice crusher, “Maybe I’ll get flames tattooed on me. D’you think you could do colored ink, D?”

“Well…” Donnie hesitated as Leo and Raph both whipped their heads around to stare at him.

“You’re giving him a tattoo?” Raph asked.

Leo said, “Did you ask sensei about this?”

“I’m not _doing_ anything, Raph,” said Donnie, “and no, I didn’t, Leo, because I’m not doing anything. Yet,” he added, and Leo frowned. Behind him, Mikey was grinning.

“I already have ideas for designs. Donnie just has to figure out the technical part,” he said. He put down his cup, almost overflowing with crushed ice, and pointed to his left bicep. “I was thinking, like, a ring of ‘boards, and some fire, and maybe the sun ‘cause I love summer.”

“That sounds dumb,” said Raph.

“It’s not! I’ll show you—”

“Hey!” Donnie cried. Mikey stopped with one foot in the air, turned towards the kitchen doorway. “Just hold your horses, Mikey. I don’t even know how it would work. _If_ it would work.”

Mikey was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled again, and headed for his bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “I wanna show you my ideas anyway. You’ll make it work, bro, you always do.”

Donnie hated it when Mikey was right.

He spent eighteen months perfecting the ink, balancing the colors so that they would look right on green skin and making sure it wouldn’t fade. Then it took a year to design and build the gun and needles custom for reptilian skin—much longer than he would have liked, but it was one of many projects vying for his attention that year. That was the same year he rebuilt his staff almost from scratch, implementing a mechanical extender and steel reinforcements. His wooden staff was put to rest on a set of hooks over his bedroom door.

The next year, he was able to devote much more time to practicing with the gun, and for their twenty-second mutation day, Donnie put it in a box and stuck an orange bow on top. He saved it for last, after they had exchanged the rest of their gifts (an authentic Kiyohara Tama print for Leo and a new music player for Raph), and Mikey all but screamed when he opened it.

“I _knew_ you’d figure it out!” he yelled, lunging across the kitchen island to drag Donnie into an awkward hug. “I didn’t think it would take so long, but I knew you would!”

“Hey, it only took so long because I—” Donnie started, but Mikey was already dashing off to his room. He came back with a stack of papers, and Leo and April just barely managed to move the dishes out of the way before he dropped the drawings on the counter.

“I have so many ideas,” he said, “you have no idea, dude. This is gonna be amazing.”

Splinter gave his permission, only advising Mikey to think carefully about his designs.

“A tattoo should have meaning,” he said. For a moment he considered Mikey’s drawings, then added, “But the flames _are_ cool.”

Mikey grinned so wide that Donnie thought he might split his lip.

It was another two weeks before Mikey finally decided on the final design—Maori-inspired, with thick, strong black lines and a stylized turtle in the center (an appropriate, if cliche choice). Its maturity surprised Donnie.

He did it in two stages, so that he could observe for allergic reaction and give Mikey a break from the stinging. The family flitted in and out of his lab to watch him fill in the outlines; Leo stayed the longest.

“You should get one too, Leo,” said Mikey.

“Stay still,” Donnie said for the twelfth time.

“They’d make you look like a total badass,” Mikey went on, like he hadn’t heard Donnie, but he didn’t move as much this time.

“I don’t know,” Leo said.

A few days later, he brought Mikey a few sheets of paper with sketches on them.

“I don’t know,” he said again, rubbing the back of his neck, “something like these. I’m not much of an artist, I was hoping you might—” And Mikey grabbed his own sketchbook and a marker, and started drawing.

“These are awesome, dude,” he said. “Like, truly cool. I’m lovin’ the turtle motif, we could be twins!”

Leo smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

And Donnie wasn’t surprised when Leo came to him with an armband design for his left bicep. It _did_ make him look like a badass.

Raph had a bad allergic reaction to the ink. Donnie apologized for days, until Raph told him to cut it out or he’d get punched.

“Maybe it’ll scar and I’ll look twice as cool,” he said. It did scar, in thick, raised lines that stood out almost white against Raph’s skin. Donnie felt guilty whenever he looked at it for months afterwards, but Raph seemed to love it. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, after all.

Leo wanted another tattoo when they were twenty-four. Mikey helped him design it again. They spent several hours on it, sitting at the kitchen island, talking and drawing while Donnie worked on his own (way better) version of the Apple Watch.

“It’s like I’m carrying a piece of our family with me everywhere,” Leo told him, once the tattoo was finished and Donnie was wiping away drops of blood. “I love wearing your art.”

“I was just copying Mikey’s drawings,” Donnie said, “he’s the artist.”

“No, it’s your art, too. Give yourself more credit, little brother,” Leo said, and tugged on the tail of Donnie’s bandanna as he left.

In two years, Leo’s tattoo count grew to four (five, if the plain line around his right wrist counted), and Mikey decided he wanted another one, too.

“I want everybody’s name, right here,” he said, holding out his left forearm. “My bros, sensei, April, Casey, LH—my whole family.”

Donnie waited for him to bring out a design.

“I defer to the artist,” Mikey said, with a silly little bow. “Defer is a great word, right? I saw it on that Word-A-Day calendar April got for Splinter that one time.”

“You just want me to do… whatever?” Donnie asked.

“Yeah, dude. I said “I defer to the artist,” didn’t I? Defer means you can do whatever you want, right?”

“It means you submit to my wishes, so, yeah. I can do whatever I want,” Donnie said, a smile spreading across his face. “I _am_ the artist.”


End file.
